My neighbor leaves his axe out in the rain.
We are not neighbors, I don’t know
His name; for two years we have waved
And said something mundane about the weather
As we passed. He’s skinny and gray and looks
Like a salted redneck; he drives his golf cart
Up and down the road. I look like a guy
Who walks his dog up and down the same road.
Sometimes people ask if I know so and so who lives
On Maple Street, Oak or Pine, and I say no.
I think maybe I should, then I think
Of my grandmother who when befuddled
Said to grandkids you, you. You know
Who you are. I want to pick up
His axe and move it out of the rain, set
It on his porch, but who am I and who
Is he that I should step on his porch uninvited?
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